


Aches

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F, F/M, Multi, Off-screen Relationship(s), Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2017-11-29 13:42:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 5,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/687622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a collection of inconsequential drabbles. no linearity, each in their own plane of existence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Aches

“Now that Hawke has hooked up with Kitten, we need to do something about that pout of yours.”

“I don’t pout, Isabela.”

“Course you don’t. Just as Fenris doesn’t brood and Varric doesn’t lie.”

She’s grinning at Anders from her seat at the clinic, having finished her check-up session. All clear, had been for a week. Anders is busy cleaning himself up after a Lowtown child vomited all over the front of his robe.

He huffs in response, setting his hair back in its usual ponytail, and as quick as cock can crow Isabela’s behind him, pressing her chest against his back and he feels the flare of something screaming at him ‘No’. He ignores it just as he ignores her, but like the voices that have grown into his thoughts, she persists.

“Hawke has her pussy cat, now it’s time for you to find yours.” Deft hands play with his belt and he slaps them away, turning around to wave a dirty rag in her face.

“I’m capable of finding and caring for my own cats without your help, thank you.” He knows the innuendo that’s dancing at the tip of her tongue. In the past he might have followed up with one of his own. But the truth is he’s crushed. There was an aching song in his bones that had grown to a dull roar when Merrill dressed to the nines had answered the door to Hawke’s estate.

He always told Hawke he would hurt her, but Merrill…Merrill was worse for her. It just wasn’t right, it didn’t feel right. She’d turn to her demon before giving Hawke the time of day and he…

Isabela laughs, and regardless of the vomit and blood she takes the rag and tosses it aside.

“All this pining isn’t doing you any Justice, Blondie. Let’s get you a drink and out of these robes. And maybe you can show me your Staff of Smiting or at least some of the old Anders I used to know.” Her hand travels southward and she presses against the spot where it aches the most for Hawke, and he groans in annoyance, stepping back only to find himself backing into a shelf full of poultices and salves. Isabela’s no threat, her flirtations are harmless albeit annoying, but Justice disapproves nevertheless and there’s a crackling in his skull.

For once, she seems to actually mean what she says, and she continues despite his obvious agitation. “You know, the Anders that used to show off his electricity trick, with the light smile and handsome joking eyes. Whatever happened to him, I miss that bastard.”

He’s still there, somewhere, buried under all the weight of years. And for a moment he appears through a nostalgic smirk, heavy eyes lighting up with an old spark that weariness had chased away. But Isabela’s hand rubs him in all the right ways that scream as wrong, and he takes her firmly by the wrist and brings it up and away as he stares down at her. He’s tired, there are bags under his eyes, and though Isabela remains cheerful and lewd, she says nothing.

And she says nothing as chapped lips hungrily press against hers, and continues to say nothing as rough stubble scratches at her chin, and will continue to not say much as he takes his ache out on her welcoming and accommodating body. She’ll just laugh and smirk and inhale and exhale and come…and go.

There’s a rasp of breath at her ear, and she laughs again, hiking down her tunic and looking down between the two of them. She licks her lips and watches as he tucks himself back in.

“You ruined my best pair of boots.”


	2. Markings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She has her reasons for her markings.

He doesn’t watch her dip the needle in the ink. He doesn’t watch when she pierces and punctures the skin of her calf. The very process prickles his skin, ghosting around long-forgotten memories that left scars both physical and mental.

He instead watches  _her_. He watches the way she bites her lip in both concentration and a contained sigh, the way her brow furrows, the way her toes curl...

( _how in Thedas does she find pleasure in this?_ )

When she’s finished he finally ventures a look down and sees that the end product is an outline of a nude mermaid, fresh and bold against her smooth dark skin. The human half is familiar: short feathered hair filled in with black ink, a strong face softened by lips parting in a sigh. It cups its breast in an enticing, come-hither manner and Fenris snorts when he recognizes the likeness.

"I don’t think she’ll be flattered."

"Then it’s a good thing it’s not for her," Isabela tuts as she cleans up, washing her needles in a bowl and corking her ink.

They hold silence for a few minutes as the familiar creaks of the ship fill in the empty wordless space. He thoughtfully drinks from his bottle of wine, watching Isabela prop up her leg to admire her creation.

"Why do you do it?" He asks suddenly, scratching at a dent on the arm of his seat. "The piercings, the tattoos…" He remembers when he first saw the gold ball on her tongue to compliment the one on her labret, the gold ring on her left nipple begging to be tugged, the intricate design of a squid crushing an armoured man adorning her back…

"It’s because I have the freedom to do so. It’s because I  _want_  to.” The words flow naturally, she doesn't need to think why, she  _knows_  why. “I do it because this,” the pirate gestures to the whole of her body, “is all mine. I let you touch me, I let Hawke touch me, but neither of you own me and these tattoos, these piercings…they remind me of that. I chose to get them, I chose to keep them.” It’s different for him, she knows it. She had gotten her markings sometime after Luis had died, when her invisible bindings were cut by an assassin’s blade. She reclaimed her skin as her own through these markings, established herself as an important authority based on old Rivaini custom. Fenris’ tattoos were a means of control. For as much as she and Hawke admire them, the two of them know the ugly reasons behind the beautiful designs.

Isabela frowns as he goes quiet. Placing a bandage over the tattoo she continues to chat, changing the subject of the question while also keeping to the topic.

“You know Fenris, if you ever wanted one, you’d look good with a pierced ear.” She tugs on her own earring for emphasis, laughing as he makes a face over the lip of the bottle. “Nothing big, just a small ring on those long ears of yours. Or perhaps an emerald stud to match your eyes.”

A laugh escapes him despite his best attempts to remain disgusted at the suggestion, and he looks at her in a considering manner, said green eyes staring thoughtfully at her.

“I  _may_  consider it,” he rises, bottle of wine still in hand, and he walks over to her. He reaches forward, touching and admiring the hammered gold of her earrings. His fingers brush the shell of her ear and she shivers pleasantly, looking up at him with a quirked smile and they hold each other’s gaze. “But only if you’re the one holding the needle.”


	3. Tapping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally posted on tumblr, hence all the lowercase. featuring Fenris as a trans male.

when days grow slow, she fidgets. 

she fidgets in bed, she fidgets at her desk, she fidgets on deck with her jewelry and her clothing and with lanyards and coins and  _Maker’s breath_  it can get agitating to even be within the same few feet of her when she gets like this.

he’s a hypocrite of course, as he fidgets too, but not to the degree that isabela does. his is of nervousness, of dark personal clouds that loom overhead and make him uneasy, sweating palms and looking over your shoulder though the ones who once followed you are long dead and long gone.

hers is…hers is…well, he’s not sure what it’s from. boredom, maybe, of idle hands and idle minds though there’s plenty to do on board and on sea the waters have been empty and the days between lands long. she distracts herself with crewmates and with drinking but still in the dark hours of the night when he’s trying to sleep he hears her fidgeting and wakes up with dark circles under his eyes and a grumbling snap to his voice. 

 she has a piercing on her tongue which she taps against the back of her teeth, pink tongue poking between dark lips as she does so, looking annoyingly foolish as she lounges in her chair, tap tap tapping away at the back of her teeth with a gold ball piercing he had never noticed until their final few months in Kirkwall due to…reasons that make the tips of his pointed ears blush with memory.

ordinarily he likes the piercing for…those  _same_  reasons but now that he rooms with her and sleeps next to her and spends lazy nights with her the piercing can get agitating when she stims with it. and tonight is one of those nights, her looking over lists of food stock and of stolen coin and traveling goods, tongue sticking out and the familiar tap of a warm gold ball against hard white teeth.

he tosses and turns huffing and groaning to no avail until finally he rises, wearing only his undergarments, his binder shed from earlier activities. he moves quietly against the creaky wooden floor of her captain’s quarters, bare feet soft whispers, silver tattoos flaring with annoyance, and he leans over across from her and pinches the tip of her tongue between his thumb and forefinger, tugging on it and holding it as isabela startles from her ministrations and looks at him, letting out a muffled noise of surprise as he exposes the gold ball to the air.

she looks ridiculous and there’s some satisfaction for him in her expression.

“ _stop it_ " he warns, tone curt and authoritative despite his pleased look, and bela stares with wide eyes, blinking owlishly in the candlelight before pressing her teeth down against her tongue, grinning as much as one can grin with their tongue being held by an irritable elf with perky breasts and a slim build, and the laugh she lets out is muffled and warms the tips of his fingers and sounds strange and slurred.

he releases her tongue and for once her fidgeting stills, sitting back in her chair, the sound of wood scraping against wood. she doesn’t say anything, doesn’t defend her habits or try to explain why she does what she does when there’s little for her to do. she can’t explain it even if she tried, old habits from ever since she can remember. she used to get locked up when she misbehaved like this, set aside in a small room with a book and a bottle of wine, growing stir crazy and bored as hours dragged on, but fenris doesn’t need to hear it nor know of it.

a burst of annoyance and a pinched tongue are nothing after all, especially when it’s fenris doing the pinching and especially when his agitation wanes as she loops her arms around his waist and sits him in her lap, facing her, mouth on his neck.

and she reminds him why her fidgeting hands aren’t all that bad, and why he can’t stay mad at her restless tongue for too long.


	4. Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> featuring more trans!fenris/isabela

Isabela embroiders Fenris’ binder with gold threading, clever fingers quick and nimble with a needle as she decorates the simple thing with glistening stars. they stand out against the black, small gold twinkling things that make a show of the cover.

He watches her quietly from the bed, lanky legs crossed and elbows resting against the sharp jut of his knees.

"It’s so you can wear the sky on your back," she says idly when he asks why even bother when nobody can see it beneath his tunic. He’s not sure if she’s serious, and by the glint in her eye made warm by the fire in the fireplace, he knows she’s not.

He doesn’t wear it, not for a long time. He has more sensible ones, ones with less delicate needlework, ones meant to be torn apart in the midst of battle, ones he can sew and mend crudely together without damaging the design.

But then she’s gone. Something having to do with the Arishok, with sorting herself out, with yelling at Hawke and storming away, passing the dead bodies and fallen buildings as she goes  _away_. She’s gone for months. Then a year. Then longer.

When he puts on the binder finally, it’s a warm embrace from someone he didn’t know he could miss. The sky glitters along his chest in golden makeshift stars as he looks at himself in the mirror. Tracing made-up constellations, he wonders what the stars look like wherever she is.


	5. Gone

She’s gone for days, weeks, months, nearly a year. Leaving him on shore, saying goodbye with a lewd kiss, telling him she has matters to attend to with an old acquaintance and old friend. She promises adventures and leaves him behind for what seems to be a big one, and when he pushes to join she pushes back as she so often does, and while he understand that this is the nature of their relationship (he’s a boulder on a shore and she’s the entire mass of the ocean coming in at high tide and leaving at low) there’s a twisting tangling knot in his stomach and he flares with annoyance and anger as he watches the ship leave the docks.

But she returns, and it’s on accident. A different country, a different dock, and it’s a coincidence that he sees her browsing wares in a marketplace, her bare skin decorated with new bruises and scratches and scars. She doesn’t seek people, she never does.

( _"I hear Zevran’s around," he says, and she pauses, looking thoughtful and distant, considering something before shaking her head. "He’s always busy,"  she says finally, "Some other time, maybe."_ )

But he has been seeking her, even as he had tied up his own loose ends in the process, met with a sister he had once deemed worthy of death. So when he finally finds her he goes to her, announcing himself with an awkward clearing of the throat, holding her face carefully in steely hands as she turns and grins at him. He kisses the corners of her mouth, her cheeks, her eyelashes for good measure, something more personal than she’s ever allowed in the past. It’s embarrassing to her, he sees the flush of dark freckled skin as he pulls back, but instead of yelling at him or pulling away as he anticipates, she pulls herself back in, cheek against his chestplate, hearing the loud thud of a quickening heartbeat. _  
_

"You weren’t looking for me, were you?" she asks, not trying to hide how tightly she held his body against hers, washing over him, submerging him.

"Of course not," he lies.


	6. Taller

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and even MORE transfenris/isabela from my tumblr

there are days when his skin feels like  _his_. when the lyrium markings are only a dull ache that don’t reach to his bones, danarius now only a whisper that’s dead and buried and not breathing down his neck. he doesn’t slouch, doesn’t scowl, and isabela notices. she’s quick to point it out as she sees him standing near the bar of the tavern waiting on a drink he was better off having at home from a proper bottle of wine.

"you look taller," she says, sidling up to him, nudging him playfully with a round hip. she’s sweaty and her tunic is stained with blood from an outing with hawke and merrill.

he finds himself straightening up more at her observation, absentmindedly puffing out his chest and not realizing his sudden posturing in her presence. she’s a keen one, rogues always are, and she leans against the bar, looking up at him and patting playfully his chest to show she realizes what he’s doing. he’s wearing only his tunic for once, and instead of her hand thonking against cool metal, distant and faint, it’s warm against the press of his binder and he can nearly imagine her skin against  _his._

"taller and less like a prickly porcupine."

his drink arrives, set between him and isabela as corff quickly moves away to avoid hearing the pirate’s order. instead of taking the drink that no doubt tastes of stale grapes and vomit, fenris runs bare fingers up along the length of bela’s bicep.

he smirks, a strange bolt of something running through him down to his toes, the same that keeps him puffed up like a parading cockatrice, and he leans forward to murmur in her ear.

"though still just as thorny."

isabela’s laugh is sudden and loud as he moves back to calmly take his drink, still aware of how she looks at him now. and yet he remains tall and comfortable and her gaze feels warm and inviting as she eyes him up and down.

"you practiced that, didn’t you?"

the smirk remains on his lips even as the makeshift wine tastes dreadful against his tongue. it’s too sweet, not at all bitter. “for years,” he says, and despite himself his ears flush pink.


	7. Taste

isabela tastes of salt of sweat of bitter ale and hawke drowns her sorrow against the warmth of her lips

for a moment she fools herself into believing that those are not tears that wet her cheeks but the sting of the ocean spray and the creak of the bed is a ship against waves and she has her captain in her arms and kirkwall to her back and fading fast

but at the end of the night all that remains is an empty estate and an empty bedroom and a woman who slips through her fingers like sand in an hourglass


	8. whispers

she kisses his neck, between the lines of lyrium and feels the vibrations of his voice as he chuckles quietly. his pulse quickens, fluttering softly beneath her lips.

long elegant fingers tangle in her hair, gently guiding her up. it’s a lazy morning, each movement languid and slow and drawn out as though moving through water. she trails up along his neck, traces the sharp angle of his jaw with soft lips, nips at his cheek, kisses the corners of his mouth, draws herself in and on top of him, and he opens and receives and breathes her name easily when they part.

she tells more sordid stories when hawke pries, quick trysts and handcuffs and whipped cream and back alleyways. the expected stuff. the usual stuff.

she doesn’t tell anyone of the way she whispers his name back. not hawke, not varric, not merrill, not anyone. it’s her secret to have and he keeps it close and locked away and hopes he keeps it just out of reach to keep her coming back.

hawke asks him why he doesn’t take up his old name. why keep the little wolf when the chains have been broken. it’s reclaimed, he finally says after days of sleeping on it and after days of waking sometimes alone and sometimes next to her, it’s his now, the man who owned it is dead and it’s his name now and it’s his name as a free man and it’s his name to reclaim and make for himself what his master could not do and it’s his name when she says it alongside the whisperings of sheets against bare skin.

for once it all feels right.


	9. Value Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm in too deep with this ship.

he’s still in a cage. locked up tight. tense. coiled like a spring. he’s taught and she feels him beneath the warm spread of her palms, bare skin against tight muscles that still anticipate pain even when there’s none to be had.

she kisses him. on his mouth, at his cheeks, sucks at his neck and dips her tongue against the jut of his collarbone. he’s so tightly wound yet he still holds her close, fingers pressing against her skin even as her mouth moves down. he’s nervous, he sometimes is. it’s easy to talk the talk but once you try to walk down a path less traveled you can still stub your toes against rocks, trip yourself up over exposed roots. the analogy gets away from her but he remains in her bed, the low din of the hanged man drowning out the quiet noises he makes.

of course he’s quiet. she used to be quiet too. a long time ago.

she pauses at his navel, sliding her hands beneath the curve of his back, holding him and having him anchor her as she looks up at him. he’s not looking at her, his head is tilted back, away, and something feels off so she stops herself despite the low burning she feels at the pit of her stomach.

"we can stop this, you know." she sits up, sitting back on her legs, and from this angle she sees tears clinging to his eyelashes. "we don’t have to go further. you can get dressed, go, pretend i bested you at an intense game of cards, head ho-"

it’s not the first time and it’s not the last, and she sees how he avoids looking at her, how he moves suddenly away to sit at the edge of her bed and she just lingers where she sits, hands at her knees, watching the curve of his back as he hunches over and rests his face in his hands.

"i do not wish to leave." his voice is stilted, jumbled words of someone fluent in a different native tongue, but he’s not looking at her and she  _hates_  when he doesn’t look at her, so she moves, sitting next to him, and he doesn’t shrink away but he still doesn’t look at her.

shame.

it’s also familiar.

"then you don’t have to leave." she says it softly, staring at the flame of a candle kept near an abandoned card game they  _had_  started.

"if…you prefer i leave then i shall."

isabela scoffs. he doesn’t get it, does he? they’re still at that point where neither of them get it, but he can be so thickheaded sometimes that she…

"i  _want_  you to stay.” her voice stutters a bit despite (or  _because_  of) the sincerity in her tone, and tentatively she rests her hand at his knee. he doesn’t shirk away from her touch, and though he still looks down and away he rests his hand atop hers, giving it a squeeze and letting out a small shaking breath.

she knows those demons, knows those nights, and she bumps him gently with her elbow. she  _knows_  these things which is why she deflects and she  _knows_  these feelings that well up in her chest 

_i care_

_i know_

_i want_

_i l—_

"i want you here."

fenris finally looks up, looks at her, holds her hand perhaps a bit  _too_  tight. but it’s physical and it’s here and it’s more important than ghosts that linger and flit through the walls of your mind when you find yourself in a dark place.

he doesn’t say anything, but the look in his eyes go from hollow to normal to warm and inviting. his breathing slows and he twines his fingers with hers

they’re both shit at saying how they feel, but she wants him here and he stays because he wants to.

and that in itself is enough.


	10. Glistening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for allusions to sexual abuse

isabela jokes about him glistening, about always being within reach and how he must  _shine_  with expensive oils lush and lavished all over his body. fenris asks with an annoyed huff countered by a smirk if she has a whole story in her head, and she hums, running her fingers down her cheek in mock euphoria.

when he looks away, blush creeping at his ears, her hand on her cheek moves down to her neck, fingers brushing against the cool shine of her gold necklace that glistens in the sun, eyes forward and a smirk fixed on her lips despite her mind wandering and gaze glazing over in thought.

_always close at hand_

_always within reach_

_glistening_

there’s a story of sorts working in her head, but not one made up and not one about pretty tattooed elves. instead it’s one that claws to the surface as a memory would, from depths dark and murky.

_he had decked her in sparkling jewels, in golds and silvers and in sleek **glistening**  silks and delicate lace from orlais. he kept her close at parties to show her off to friends and future bedmates of hers by his choosing (he likes to watch pretty things, he had said). he never liked her moving far from him, didn’t like her wandering (he liked knowing where she was and who she was with) and gave her pretty glistening bells from llomeryn so she jingled when she walked._

_there were times he would rub scented oils on her when he had her lay bare for him, greased hands wandering as he called her a pretty thing, his pretty glistening bauble._

the memory breaks with a low chuckle and a rush of bandits who seem to come from nowhere (the roofs, varric says). her jewelry catches in the sun and she laughs. laughs because the past is only a story and only a joke and the punchline is that he’s dead and she’s nowhere  _near_  him.

and that she glistens with gold jewelry of her own choosing.


	11. Fingertips

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inspired by MadameRed's 'lay it bare': ace!fenris in a romantic relationship with isabela.

they brush fingertips, hold hands, and she laughs and whispers about  _that night_  and how she  _can’t stop thinking about it_

he chuckles, warmly, quietly, and hawke turns their head in surprise because they hardly ever hear fenris  _chuckle_  and wonder what that pirate has him all giggly about

_i’ll see you late_ _r_  fenris says and they assume they all assume because it’s  _isabela_  what’s not to assume?

they kiss in the shadow of his mansion but that’s about it, light peppering kisses that raise gooseflesh from contact and bring forth breathy laughs because it  _tickles_

fingers in hair, warm clothed bodies next to each other, the flickering of a fireplace. she doesn’t expect flowers, she doesn’t expect  _anything_  and there is no obligation of anything other than what it  _is,_  what  _this_  is.

and they’re quiet and they whisper and they gossip and he kisses the tips of her fingers which are worn and rough from years of seafaring and hardship. and they drink wine and each other’s presence and that’s  _it_  that’s  _all_  no matter what one may assume because it’s  _her_.

and if it was like  _that_  it would not be so bad but things are what they are and fenris is who he is.

_and he blushes, so cute!_  and he blushes because he’s happy and he blushes because she’s trying to hold his hand in front of everyone and he blushes because he thinks of how he rests his head in her lap and how her fingers brush his hair from his face.

he blushes and she laughs and they love and it’s simple.


	12. Quiet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for allusions to past sexual abuse

He’s quiet when he comes, through practiced breaths and clenched teeth, eyes wound shut.

It’s ugly, plenty of people are ugly when they come, but his is a different yet familiar sort of ugliness and she knows why. It happens on occasion, even during the best of times. While there is pleasure and relief hazed in his bright green eyes that catch the dim light as he looks up at her, there’s the glassy sheen of something being held back.

He exhales shakily, breath warm and sweet from wine and sex, and though he’s always been the sort to flinch away from random touches, averse most of the time and understandably so, her weight is a comfort. And in times like these he needs that comfort. Fenris sits up, keeping her straddled in his lap as he brings his knees up and presses his body up against hers. Lanky arms wrap around and cradle her, holding her close, his breath ragged and heavy though not from exertion.

He rests his head at the crook of her neck, mouthing dark skin in an almost apologetic way, tears slipping and wetting her skin, cooling in the air of her captain’s quarters.

_She had been like that. Once. Quiet and distant and shaking and ugly at the end. She’d cling to Zevran though laugh it off when it was through. “Don’t worry about me, handsome,” she’d say even if he didn’t say anything in turn save run his hands through her hair as she cried, “It wasn’t you it was…”_

Her motions mimicked the past, running calloused hands through Fenris’ thick white hair. It comes down to his shoulders now…he needs a haircut or perhaps he can keep it grown out, tie it back. He’d be handsome with long hair but whenever it gets this way he hurriedly hacks it off as soon as he’s aware of its length.

The tears stop and his breathing is normal but the tattoos on his skin still flicker and glow in the aftermath, illuminating the dark room.

"Thank you…" he murmurs, though Isabela has done nothing but hold him, and she chuffs lightly, kissing his brow with affection now easily found. She understands. Their first time had been this way and she knew it would not be the only time.

"It’s not you it’s…"

She hushes him, soothingly, voice low, running fingers along the length of his hunched spine, “I know sweet thing…” and she holds him closer and feels his limbs loosen against hers, “I know.”


	13. Importance

“she pretends not to care, but…i know you’re important to her.”

zevran chuckled, throaty and warm and he nosed against fenris’ temple. in turn, fenris grumbled, pushing zevran’s face away with an open palm, holding him there even as the ex-crow attempted to find his way around it.

“i’m serious.”

“you’re  _always_  so serious, my dear fenris.”

as though to prove zev’s point, he frowned, sitting up to glare down at the elf that now shared his captain’s bed. it was a passing thing, that’s what isabela had said. zevran was always a passing thing. and yet at one point she reasoned that fenris was a passing thing too yet…here he was. here he remained.

he heard the way isabela talked fondly of the assassin. of his artistry. of his tattoos and skin and the way he had killed her husband, how he…

…well, they all had their chains at one point.

he got up, tugging on loose pants that might be his, leaving zevran to lounge comfortably in their bed like a large naked cat. he stretched, rolled, preened, and the way he acted and attempted to entice fenris back to bed with him was entirely too familiar.

fenris had found himself picking up some of isabela’s quirks while in her company, and he begun to wonder how much of isabela had been taken from zevran.

_not taken_  she’d say,  _borrowed_.


End file.
